What Goes Around
by RowanaRenee
Summary: After an unlucky but technically good day, d'Artagnan finds himself on the other side of a familiar situation. He isn't happy about it. Rated for some suggestive comments and themes. (Never thought that would be on one of MY stories...) Lite d'Artagnan whump


**Warning: I wouldn't recommend taking this story too seriously.  
**

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_~ Qu'est-ce qui se passe autour ~_

_What Goes Around_

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_Technically, _d'Artagnan reminded himself as he limped home, ragged and tired, it had been a good day.

Aside from being used as bait- which an infuriated Athos _had_ tried to insist he not go along with- and the trap being realized before it could be sprung, subsequently being chased through still-unfamiliar streets by the rat said trap had been intended for, and the being caught in the end..._and_ the being batted to and fro as if _he_ were the mouse and the rat was really a cat, up until the cat had decided to let the mouse live, so long as d'Artagnan had agreed to spy for him. That was how it had all worked out in the end, despite how uncomfortable a conversation it had been when he'd explained the new plan's terms to the Inseparables.

That time, Athos _and_ Porthos had tried to convince him to admit defeat. They could find another way, somehow. But this seemed faster and, if he was completely honest, it felt like a good chance to prove himself.

It had taken a vote of confidence from Aramis, but d'Artagnan had eventually pretended to be the cat's spy, while in reality successfully spying for the Musketeers and leading the cat into another trap. That had been all well and good, except that the trap was sprung early, leaving d'Artagnan alone with the now enraged cat for far longer than was healthy.

At some point during those agonizingly slow minutes, it had occured to the Gascon that, having begun this mission as bait, he was neither cat or mouse, but was in reality the cheese. A sobering and mildly humiliating thought, considering that entailed being riddled with holes and chewed on until the trap could do its work.

The Inseparables had arrived at exactly the right moment, though a little late in d'Artagnan's opinion since he was already bruised and bleeding, pinned down by a snarling sadist whose many crimes included far worse than murder. The villain had, at long last, been brought to justice and the three musketeers and their tag-along- an unfortunate nickname cooked up by certain members of the garrison, but by no means the most shocking or unfriendly- had enjoyed a few hours of celebration once the patching-up was done.

Now, d'Artagnan was only a _little_ irritated by the throbbing under his right eye that accompanied an already spectacular bruise- Aramis had tsked playfully and danced between assuring him the mark would fade and telling him it lent his appearance a roguish sort of charm. Athos had pointed out that the livid mark was actually far past charming to the point of being frightful. When Porthos had put in his agreement, Aramis had settled for repeating the sentiment that it wouldn't last forever.

"And besides," the older man had added cheerfully, ruffling his friend's hair, "You still have beautiful eyes, that's something at least."

Other than that injury- highly distracting because it _burned_ where skin had been chafed by the force of the assailant's punches...and _slaps_\- there was also more minor bruising on his upper arms- from being grabbed- along with scrapes on his back- shoved against a wall- a nasty patch of mottled red on one hand- stepped on- missing skin over his knuckles- fighting back. Without gloves. Apparently punching someone in the teeth to make them _stop_ without protection was inadvisable.- and a jarred knee that caused his limp- kicking. _Hard_.

But still, he reminded himself again as he neared his destination, the man _had_ been brought to justice. It _had_ been a good day.

If he noticed the odd look he was getting from a well-dressed woman he passed in the street, it was only vaguely, and he didn't notice at all when she quietly concluded her business with a vendor and, biting her lip contemplatively, followed him without a sound.

At this point, he was already too focused on _home- _sort of, anyway- where _Constance_ and his _bed_\- which he would be happier to see was unclear- to notice much of anything except the odd pulse of pain, and the noblewoman easily closed the gap between them just as the familiar building came into view.

He startled at the sensation of a small hand on his arm, began to turn curiously. "Eh-" was all he could manage before-

A startled yelp was torn from the Gascon, a little higher pitched than he'd ever willingly admit, as two hands that were stronger than they looked gripped his arms- unfortunately unable to be mindful of bruises they didn't know were there- pressing him roughly back against an unrelenting wall before he could protest. More alarming, though, was the sudden feeling of lips pressed forcefully against his own, hot breath washing over his face.

His flailing hands found their way to his attacker's- ?- shoulders, and he tried to push her- it was a her, he saw- away, eyes wide with shock and only dimly registering what he could see of the woman's face.

For a moment, she pulled back, flushed with excitement and panting. Her grip tightened again mere seconds later, severe to the point of being painful, and d'Artagnan's feeble, confused protests went ignored as she lunged for him.

He discovered that gasping was a mistake and choked at the resulting invasion, a strangled sound in the back of his throat when her hands finally moved, pulling at his hair, trailing down his sides, fumbling in attempt to find their way beneath the hem of his shirt...

"Mmmppff!" part of him wanted to simply grab her and fling her away; surely she was _insane_, after all. But he couldn't bring himself to hurt her even though the scrape of teeth against teeth was an unnerving sound and he couldn't _breathe_, she _clearly_ had no qualms about hurting _him_ and his knees were starting to go weak. There wasn't enough air left in his lungs to speak, and in any case there was no room for words.

Amid the embarrassingly easily thwarted struggles, d'Artagnan felt one hand grab his wrist, the other forcing something into his hand- the _injured_ one, no less!- and felt a burning rush of blood to his face at the realization that it was a small purse of coins. That was enough to make him growl, but it was a more panicked than threatening sound, and only seemed to encourage the mad-woman who was-

He couldn't help the indignant shriek when her deft and wandering hands found a new mark, and he lurched forward, to one side, unwanted coins dropping from his hand to scatter noisily across the ground, but there was nowhere to go because she was throwing all her weight against him...

To hell with it.

He bit down.

She recoiled from him with a cry sharp enough to make him remember not wanting to hurt her- a deeply ingrained instinct that felt unnatural to shake off- but the too-warm, pulsing ache around his mouth quickly pushed that thought aside. He should take the opportunity to flee, but d'Artagnan was too busy sinking back against the wall and getting as much air as he could-

His vision popped black for what could've been minutes or hours, dotted with white and blue flecks, tinted red as an explosive sound left his ears ringing, head snapped violently to one side from the strength behind the slap that would leave his left cheek as bruised as the right. When he could open his now-streaming eyes, the world swam and swayed dangerously, a blurry figure scowling at him.

"Wha-?" he mumbled hoarsely, shaking his head to clear it.

"How dare you?" the woman spat, "I didn't pay you for _that_, and if I did it would be the _other way_ around."

d'Artagnan hadn't thought it possible to blush any more, but was proven wrong. "_Pay_ me?" he repeated, voice cracking in a way that only served to irritate him more, "What do I look like to you?"

The woman eyed him critically, though it felt more like being leered at. "You look like," she said slowly, tracing a curled hand along his jaw before he could stop her- she took care to inflame everything that already hurt- "someone who could use the money _and_" her finger over his now-sore lips cut off the angry retorts he'd been about to interrupt with, "is..._accustomed_...to working for it. Now, shall we try again?"

If the earth could've opened up and swallowed him just then, d'Artagnan would've gone gladly. Batting the woman's hand away from his face and glowering a warning should she decide to go ahead, he straightened to full height and smoothed his ruffled clothes- and hair, dear lord, his _hair_\- the best he could. "This is my _best outfit_!" again, his voice was _wrong_ due a mixture of pain, embarrassment, _more_ embarrassment, and sheer outlandish shock, "What part of this says '_prostitute_' to you?"

"Mm. We-ell," the woman mused, one eyebrow slowly rising when d'Artagnan flinched as she reached to pull at one sleeve, flicking the material dismissively. "Must be the leather..."

At d'Artagnan's incredulous expression, she turned defensive. "What? You should be flattered I thought you pretty enough despite, well..." her lip curled in distaste, with her looking all too pointedly at his marred face. He was rigid with annoyance, but she didn't seem to notice. "I assumed with a figure like yours and those beautiful eyes, you must keep some rather...oh, to be delicate...rough company? No?"

d'Artagnan whined softly in the way of a reply, words stuck in his throat and only two going through his mind anyway.

_Why me?_

He sucked in a breath between clenched teeth, finally working up the nerve to reply. "I work with the _musketeers_, I-"

"See?" the woman raised her hands in an appeal, "I wasn't so very wrong, was I?"

When d'Artagnan's glare threatened to burn through any surface he stared at for too long, the woman gave a huff of irritation. "Oh, very _well_," she said, "if it upsets you that much for someone to be honest with you, then I apologize. But, if you wouldn't mind keeping that coin..."

"No." it was practically a snarl.

"Ugh. Disappointing. I should ask you to give back more than I gave you- I'll have no entertainment until tomorrow now, since you've wasted my time and now my husband will be waiting."

d'Artagnan flinched. "He's in for a treat, then, is he?"

The woman scowled at him, but said nothing as she knelt to retrieve the fallen coins, and d'Artagnan thought with a hint of dismay that he really ought to keep some of it for the trouble. Even a quick look told him that a fraction of the offered money would've paid his rent at least twice over, though it turned his stomach to think of what exactly the woman had had in mind for him to earn it.

She turned up her nose at him, then, sniffing derisively as she turned away, leaving him to sag once more against the wall with a relieved and somewhat exasperated sigh.

_No one_ must _ever_ know about this.

When he worked up the wherewithal to fully stand again, he found his legs unsteady and his limp more pronounced than before. At least home was directly within sight, and perhaps a little fussing-over when Constance saw the wounded state of him wouldn't go amiss. He could easily dodge her questions about how some of these injuries had occurred, and she'd lecture him briefly about his recklessness, voice dripping with concern and hesitant, oh-so-gentle fingers assessing the damage...and then he could go to _bed_ and _sleep_ and- provided there were no nightmares, which he currently had _ample_ cause for- he could wake up having thoroughly forgotten this whole humiliating ordeal.

Really, it wasn't an unrealistic daydream.

Destination finally reached, d'Artagnan stepped through the door, relief washing over him in pleasant waves and painting a content smile across his features despite any pain.

And then his head was snapped again to one side under the force of a _slap_.

It was starting to get old.

"_What _were you _thinking_? You can't go..._carrying on_ like that right out in the open, _especially_ not in front of my house!"

So much for that fussing-over.

"_Mon dieu_, d'Artagnan, what sort of gentleman _are_ you?"

Blinking the spinning stars out of his vision, d'Artagnan rubbed gingerly at his now unbearably-throbbing cheek, eying Constance with a hurt look in his eyes. "What was _that_ for?" he saw her hand twitch and moved before she could slap him again.

She looked furious, eyes glinting with anger and cheeks red with it. "_What_ was it _for_?" she repeated, "Even you can't be that _stupid_." at the utterly dumbfounded, uncomprehending look in her lodger's wide brown eyes, Constance shook her head and turned away. "I was outside when...when that _woman_ gave you the money," she seethed, turning back to him with eyes over bright, "How could you?"

d'Artagnan gaped, thoroughly insulted. "_What_? You think I _wanted_-?"

The look that came over Constance was not the one he expected. All at once, most of the anger left her face, replaced by a frightened kind of concern. She stepped closer, taking in his heaving chest- he _still_ hadn't managed to completely get his breath back- and unsteady stance. He almost backed away when she reached for him, but instead simply took lite hold of her wrist when her fingers hovered over the bruises. "d'Artagnan," she asked softly, voice almost a whisper, "Surely...?" she swallowed hard, "Surely it isn't so bad as that?"

He stared deliberately at a spot over her shoulder. The room's back wall, he realized, was incredibly interesting when he was determined enough to pretend a conversation wasn't happening.

She must've taken his silence as some sordid confirmation, because she suddenly placed both hands on his chest- and was probably more than a little alarmed by the rapid hammering of his heart- head down and voice full of something he didn't care to identify. "You should've _said_ something," she said, "I knew you didn't have much money, but...there are better ways of making rent, d'Artagnan, and I could've spoken to my husband. We would've been lenient about it if-"

"_Oh_, no, no no no, no _no_..." he'd quite visably had enough, and pulled away from Constance with a lot more ease than expected after the tenacious woman he'd been unable to escape from earlier. There was nowhere to go except for his room, though, and instead he wound up pacing the small room like a caged wolf, wringing his hands and half considering climbing a tower so he could throw himself off something. "It wasn't like _that_," he looked anywhere but at Constance. The floor, he found, was utterly fascinating as far as floors went. "It wasn't like that at _all_."

"Oh?" Constance still looked worried, but some of the anger seemed to return, along with extreme confusion. "So, what was it like?"

He froze, eyes narrowed.

"Ahem." Constance shuffled nervously in the awkward silence. "I...I meant, what...ahem. What happened, if it wasn't...?"

d'Artagnan was suddenly caught up in an intense internal battle as a particular memory surfaced, making him turn away, pawing anxiously at the floor- which he was staring at _intently_\- and mumbling something unintelligible. He wondered if he'd be able to hit his head against the wall hard enough to cause death or at least unconsciousness.

"I'm sorry...?" Constance stepped nearer, straining to hear.

"I said..." d'Artagnan groaned and sank into a nearby chair, head in his hands. "I said this insane woman of the nobility mistook me for a prostitute and began taking liberties without asking questions first."

His whole face was likely blood red, but he didn't look up so Constance could only guess at it.

There was a long stretch of silence.

d'Artagnan gave a sulky whine and curled in on himself as far as humanly possible, only to flinch when he felt a hand run through his hair.

"d'Artagnan, that..." Constance paused, voice shaky, "That..."

He was completely unprepared when she burst out laughing. Not just a giggle, not just chuckling. Full-on, uncontrollable laughter that she tried to gasp out an apology through before she let herself slide down, sitting on the armrest of the chair d'Artagnan occupied.

"Glad you're enjoying yourself," he muttered miserably, not bothering to look up.

"Oh, I'm..." another fit of laughter, and she grabbed his shoulder to steady herself. "I'm sorry, but you kind of deserved that, didn't you?"

She was really practically crying with mirth, while d'Artagnan could only put his head down further and growl darkly. "That's not the same at all," he protested, "I didn't _do_ anything to you!"

Constance rolled her eyes, hand running through d'Artagnan's hair again. "Except kiss me and call me a working girl in front of who knows how many people? Doesn't feel so nice, does it?" she paused, and he had to admit that, while it was a little embarrassing being petted like a puppy, compared to the noblewoman pulling his hair and manhandling him almost more than the villains he knew to expect it from, he could almost fall asleep if Constance kept this up for much longer.

"_No_," he finally conceded, raising his head by a fraction to look at her warily. In all honesty, it was his pride that was sorest at the moment, perhaps not wounded beyond repair, but certainly battered thoroughly. "She didn't even let me keep the money."

The smack to the back of his head barely registered, but Constance' gentle chiding got through, followed quickly by, "And you never gave me the five livre you promised, so you can hardly complain, can you?"

He grumbled at that, but Constance was smirking at him. "The situations you get into...did she do all of this?"

d'Artagnan sat up a little too fast, bristling. "No," he said quickly, "Most of it was from _before_."

Constance tsked quietly, standing and moving to the kitchen. "Stay there," she said, "I'll get you a cool cloth for the swelling." she frowned at the small amount of blood coming from a split lip, nodding to herself, "maybe one to chew on, too," she mused, "that looks sore."

d'Artagnan closed his eyes. "Very."

She was almost out of the room when he called after her, standing and crossing the distance between them as quickly as the limp would allow. "Constance..." he looked past her at first, but slowly brought himself to meet her gaze, "I'm sorry for our first meeting...and for asking you to pretend you actually were, well..." his gaze dropped to his boots as he shuffled awkwardly in place. "...yeah, I'm...sorry, and I'll never ask you to do anything you don't want to ever again." he hesitated for a moment, oblivious to the look Constance was giving him. "Especially not without permission or at least fair warning first." and he leaned down and kissed her briefly on the cheek, intending to move away again after, but Constance caught his wrist.

"Apology accepted with interest," she replied, and after a few seconds he looked slowly up at her again. "You know," she mused, "You won't be quite so easily mistaken for a while now, but..." she grinned and reached up to brush the hair away from his face. "At least you've still got beautiful eyes, right?"

_Technically, _d'Artagnan thought as Constance walked away, it had been a good day.

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**A/N: soooo...is it too cheesy? Too awkward? Is it okay? Slightly funny? This idea has been beating me over the head ever since I watched the first episode a few days ago- hence the likely awful characterization- and I couldn't resist writing it.**


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